The Watchers

by Jon Steele

  ‘Let’s just say, it’s a good thing we’ve both had our lunch.’

  twenty-four

  The Inspector slid the disc in the laptop. The machine whirred, grainy video appeared on the screen.

  POV shot moving down a hall and into a sitting room of Louis XIV furniture, fine paintings and tapestries on the walls. Bay windows looking out to a lakeside harbour. A fountain shooting up from the lake, 150 metres into the sky.

  ‘These pictures were taken in a flat in Geneva’s Cologny district, famous for its view of the Jet d’Eau you see just there.’

  The camera steadied before a gilded mirror. Something reflected in the glass. Out of focus, red, marble-streaked. The camera panned and zoomed in … a headless body hanging by the ankles in the centre of the sitting room, flesh peeled away. Harper felt sick to his stomach, as if last night’s hangover was coming back for more.

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  The Inspector pointed to the horrid image on screen.

  ‘The victim is a female, fifty-eight years of age. The attending coroner happens to be a lecturer on medieval torture at the University in Geneva. He believes the killers to be well practised in the art of flaying a victim alive. Note the tiny patches of flesh left at major pulse points, where arteries and veins run closest to the skin. As long as they’re not ruptured, a master of the craft can keep his victim alive through the entire process. According to the coroner, this is the object of the art.’

  ‘The art?’

  ‘The art of inflicting pain for as long as possible.’

  ‘Seems they got their pound of flesh’s worth.’

  ‘Eight to ten actually.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Human skin is the largest organ of the human body, covering an area of some seven metres squared. Thus, the weight of the woman’s flesh is estimated at eight to ten pounds.’

  ‘Your attending coroner knows his art, does he?’

  ‘And more. Indications are the victim engaged in repeated sexual activity during the procedure.’

  ‘They raped her?’

  ‘Subcutaneous tissue at the wrists and ankles shows no sign of forced restraint, bodily orifices show no sign of violent entry. The coroner has reason to think she was stimulated to orgasm several times before death occurred, and most probably beheaded at such a moment.’

  ‘She must’ve been drugged.’

  ‘Tox-screen turned up negative, but we suspect the use of an un-registered drug with severe psychotropic effects.’

  Harper looked at the Inspector. Severe psychotropic effects … ‘Those words are from the IOC report on Yuriev’s formula.’

  The Inspector ignored Harper’s comment.

  ‘As in previous cases, we’ve not found any evidentiary DNA, other than that of the victim. She was discovered early this morning by her maid. Body temperature suggests she died in the early hours of this morning.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Simone Badeaux, a French national living in Switzerland.’

  ‘I need a drink, Inspector. You?’

  ‘Sparkling water, please.’

  Harper went to the minibar, grabbed a bottle of water and the last beer.

  ‘So who was Madame Badeaux?’

  ‘One of Europe’s legendary courtesans. She ran an exclusive escort agency out of Paris called the Two Hundred Club, with prostitutes priced at thousands of euros per night. She was connected to and protected by certain personages.’

  ‘Certain personages?’

  ‘Powerful and rich men from around the world with strong ties to the European economy. Politicians, businessmen, one or two Arab princes. All very discreet. Joke around Interpol was if Madame Badeaux’s client list was revealed, half of Europe’s governments would collapse and l’École Nationale d’Administration in Paris would be shut down. She took up residency in Switzerland seven years ago for tax reasons. And while maintaining her office in Paris, she became a model citizen of le canton de Genève.’

  Harper glanced at the screen.

  ‘Obviously. So what’s her connection to the killers?’

  The Inspector opened his cigarette case, offered one of his flash fags. Harper handed the Inspector a bottle of water in return. Harper lit up, cracked open his beer, waited for an answer, while the Inspector lit his own smoke.

  ‘I asked my counterpart in Paris to pop round to the offices of the Two Hundred Club for a look, see what he could find.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘An empty tenement off Rue Saint-Denis. Nothing but a few dead rats and a telephone on the floor. Not in the sort of place suggesting Madame Badeaux was a woman in possession of several numbered accounts holding in excess of forty million euros. Cash deposits made over the last ten years, to a private bank in Geneva.’

  ‘The woman was thrifty.’

  ‘And shrewd. There’s no paper trail of a Two Hundred Club in any French Government office. It appears Madame Badeaux conducted business exclusively by way of telephone and computer.’

  ‘Easy enough kit to crack.’

  ‘One would think. But an initial check revealed her telephone records have been deleted, except for the number leading to Rue Saint-Denis.’

  ‘How’d she manage that?’

  ‘She didn’t, someone else did. There’s a highly classified technology used by certain governmental security operations around the world that allows a worm to erase phone records instantaneously. A Swiss invention, developed by my task force. My telephone call to Paris for example. The worm followed the call and erased any trace of the communication upon hanging up. In effect the call never happened.’

  ‘What about her computer?’

  ‘The hard drive was wiped clean.’

  ‘Would’ve thought you’d have ways of making computers talk, Inspector.’

  ‘In this case, no, though not without trying. We’ve been running SX sweeps of the internet since the morning – with no luck.’

  ‘What the hell’s an SX sweep?’

  ‘Another little Swiss invention located deep within a mountain and surrounded by a crack unit of the Swiss Alpine Brigade.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Suffice it to say there’s no longer a place for a nanobyte of digital information to hide. And so far there’s not a trace of Simone Badeaux to be found anywhere on the internet. Given what I know about SX sweeps, I don’t expect to find any. I’m afraid all that’s left of Madame Badeaux is what we see dangling by the ankles in the rather fashionable Cologny district of Geneva. The poor woman’s soul has been deleted unto the hell of non-existence.’

  ‘Didn’t realize you were a philosopher.’

  ‘One sees enough brutality in the world, one seeks to understand in one’s own way. Or are you not one who seeks to understand? “Cogito ergo sum”, and so forth.’

  Latin sinking into Harper’s brain and falling into place like tumblers in a lock. Cogito ergo sum: I think, therefore I am. Half smiling to himself, not knowing why he’d know such a thing, and knowing for whatever bloody reason the cop in the cashmere coat was playing him again.

  Harper took a pull off the gold-tipped smoke, chased it with a swallow of beer. Fine, he thought, let’s play.

  ‘I’m afraid you’d have to put me with the “merda taurorum animas conturbit” crowd, Inspector.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Bullshit baffles brains.’

  The Inspector didn’t smile. Then again, he didn’t go for his gun either. ‘I must say, I’m not familiar with that quote, Mr Harper.’

  ‘No worries, Inspector, neither am I. Maybe it’s … Hang on, you said no paper trail, and the hard drive was wiped. How’d you find out about her bank accounts? Or the location of the Two Hundred Club for that matter?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The Inspector sipped his water, touched the laptop keys and advanced the video. Harper’s eyes watching the images flash by. Stop. Low-angle shot from the floor. Skinned carcass hanging in the foreground, large white cross painted on
the far wall. The Inspector advanced the video again, zoomed in to the cross. Stop. It wasn’t paint, it was a ream of A4 tacked to the wall. The Inspector hit a few keys, the picture zoomed in, digital processing adjusting the shot. Numbered accounts, cash deposits, forty million big ones credited to Simone Badeaux.

  ‘We assume the killers left these documents behind for our edification.’

  ‘Maybe they wanted you to know what a model citizen she was.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m the one they had in mind, Mr Harper.’

  The Inspector shifted the shot right.

  Words on the wall, words written in blood: ‘All who are in the heavens know what is transacted here.’

  Harper leaned towards the computer.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Chapter three, verse one, I believe.’

  Harper was in mid-swallow when the Inspector’s words sank in. He got up from the bed, looked down at the scraps of paper on the desk. The Inspector’s finger pointing to one of Harper’s hand-written notes. Words from the Book of Enoch, words on the wall. Same fucking words.

  ‘Fascinating coincidence, don’t you think, Mr Harper? You and the killers sharing such a keen interest in apocryphal works of the Bible?’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘What don’t you get? The fact you and the killers share a keen interest in the Book of Enoch, or that you have the recurring habit of stumbling into their midst?’

  ‘I didn’t know the woman, Inspector, never spoke to her.’

  ‘Are you quite sure? Perhaps through an acquaintance?’

  Harper crushed out his fag.

  ‘What are you getting at, Inspector?’

  ‘Madame Badeaux’s answering machine. A digital model we assumed wiped clean of evidence. Imagine our surprise when a single message was found. You know, one’s late picking up, the machine begins to record.’

  The Inspector closed the video on the laptop, opened an audio file.

  ‘The machine has the message recorded just after three in the morning, Thursday. Care to listen?’

  Squiggly lines on the screen, voices filled the room.

  ‘Oui?’

  ‘Simone, thank God, Simone. He’s a freak! He’s a goddamn freak!’

  ‘Katherine? Where are you?’

  ‘In my flat. I got away from that fucking freak and his fucking freak friends!’

  “Calm down, dear. I’m in the middle of something. I’ll call you back in one minute.’

  ‘Simone, wait! Simone!’

  The squiggly lines went flat as a dead man’s heartbeat.

  ‘Would you have any idea as to the identity of the caller, Mr Harper?’

  Rabbit punches from the Inspector’s sees-all, knows-all eyes. Harper felt himself getting backed into a corner.

  ‘Afraid I can’t help you, Inspector.’

  ‘Perhaps a bit more information, then.’

  The Inspector tapped at the keys, a new screen popped up, looked like voice analysis of the recording.

  ‘Yes, here we are. The caller’s accent and inflection patterns suggest she’s a white American female from the Southern California region, in her mid to late twenties. Would any of this information help you to remember the identity of the caller?’

  Harper looked at the Inspector.

  ‘You know, since the day I met you, there’s one thing I’ve wanted to ask.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘What makes you think I remember shit?’

  The Inspector hit the keys, video back on screen, 360-degree shots spinning round the corpse. Stop. Woman’s headless body, circle of blood on the far wall. Picture zooming in on the circle of blood. A calling card pinned to the wall with a bloodstained knife.

  * * *

  Jay Michael Harper

  Security Consultant

  International Olympic Committee

  * * *

  ‘Why don’t we call it a hunch, Mr Harper?’

  Katherine was finishing her lunch when Rochat suddenly jumped from the table and put on his overcoat.

  ‘I’ll be back.’

  ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘I just imagined I have to do something.’

  ‘What kind of something?’

  ‘Something in the belfry. Do you want to come outside and see?’

  ‘No, I’ll just sit here and pick at the leftovers.’

  ‘D’accord.’

  He shuffled out of the door.

  Through the open window on the east wall, Katherine thought she heard him whispering. She peeked out of the window, saw him leaning close to the big bell in the timbers, then shuffle to a wood shed and unlock the door. He stepped in, disappeared a moment, came out with two metal buckets. He shuffled back towards the window, saw Katherine watching him.

  ‘I’ll be back.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the esplanade, you can watch from the balcony.’

  ‘But you’re coming right back.’

  ‘I’m coming right back.’

  ‘What were you talking to the big bell about?’

  ‘Which big bell?’

  ‘The one behind you.’

  Rochat turned around, faced Marie-Madeleine a moment, turned again and faced Katherine.

  ‘I was telling Marie the thing I imagined in the loge.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘The thing I’m doing now.’

  He climbed through the carpentry and out of sight. Katherine heard him wind down the steps of the tower. She opened the door of the loge, tiptoed on to the balcony and hid behind a stone pillar. She heard a door scrape open from far below. She looked over the railings and saw him crossing the esplanade to the stone fountain under the trees and filling the buckets and crossing back to the tower. She heard the tower door close and lock. She jumped back into the loge, waited by the east window. She heard his crooked steps come up the tower and shuffle on to the balcony. Then she saw him round the stone pillars and climb into the timbers with the buckets.

  ‘Hey, you.’

  ‘Oui?’

  ‘What’s the thing you’re doing now that you imagined you were telling the big bell before … times, I mean?’

  ‘I told Marie I imagined getting two buckets of water from the fountain.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m going to scrub the bells of pigeon poop, do you want to come out and help?’

  ‘What, like, clean the bells?’

  ‘The wind’s very calm now and the sun’s been reflecting off Lac Léman all day and heating the pillars and arches and balcony stones. I’m very sure you’ll find it warm outside. There’s warm rubber boots in the closet with thick wool socks. And Monsieur Buhlmann’s black cloak is in there, too. He wears it when he calls the time, but he won’t mind if you wear it.’

  Katherine considered it for a second.

  ‘Nah, I think I’m better off staying inside and out of sight.’

  ‘No one can see you if you’re in the timbers with the bells. And if you wear Monsieur Buhlmann’s cloak, people will think you’re me.’

  She pulled at her long blond hair.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Rochat set down the buckets. He shuffled to the snowman behind Marie-Madeleine, took the black hat from the top of the snowman’s head. He slapped it on his overcoat, brushing away the snow. He shuffled towards Katherine and stuck the black floppy thing through the window.

  ‘It’s like mine. You can put your hair inside the hat and pull it down on your head.’

  Katherine looked at the hat, took a breath.

  ‘OK, why not?’

  She took the hat and disappeared from the window.

  Rochat picked up the buckets and shuffled by Marie-Madeleine. He tapped her bronze skirt with a bucket.

  ‘See, madame, I told you so.’

  The great bell hummed.

  ‘What do you mean, “What?” I told you I imagined I could get her to come outside so she can see things, then she can find h
er way home, and she did. Very clever, don’t you think?’

  ‘Be careful, Marc!’

  He was climbing up the criss-cross timbers with a rope between his teeth. She watched him grab a high cross-timber with his hands, swing his legs and catch the timber with his crooked foot, pulling himself up and twisting around till he was sitting on the timbers above the bell. He took the rope from his teeth, pulled a bucket of water up from the floor.

  ‘I’ve been climbing the timbers since I was little. I need to pour a little water on Marie so I can scrub off the pigeon poop. It’ll be her last bath before spring.’

  ‘Good idea, pigeon poop is terrible for the complexion. She needs to exfoliate.’

  ‘I don’t know what that means.’

  ‘It’s a girl thing, go ahead and pour.’

  ‘Get underneath her skirt, or you’ll get wet.’

  ‘You mean, like, get under the bell?’

  ‘Marie doesn’t mind.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Ask her.’

  Katherine looked at the bell, then back at Rochat.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  She ducked under the massive bell, found she could stand perfectly upright. She stretched her arms and hands, unable to touch the sides or top of the bell. A huge clapper dangled down the centre of the bell. She tried pushing it. It wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Wow, how heavy is this thing?’

  Her voice bounced off the bronze and circled inside the bell. She heard Rochat’s muffled voice from outside calling, ‘What?’ She looked out from under the bell’s skirt. Rochat was balancing the bucket on a timber.

  ‘I said, how heavy is this bell?’

  ‘Seven tons. She’s a flat.’

  ‘A flat what?’

  ‘The sound she makes.’

  ‘You mean A-flat, the musical note?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Huh. Are all the bells the same note?’

  ‘La Voyageuse is a flat, too. She lives upstairs.’

  ‘What about the other bells?’

  Rochat thought a moment.

  ‘They have other letters. Get back under Marie, or you’ll get wet.’

  She ducked under and waited. She heard drops of water slap against bronze and saw little streams drip off the edge of the bell’s skirt.